


Reflections

by mortalitasi



Series: dog days [1]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Action, Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-01-24 00:01:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1584245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortalitasi/pseuds/mortalitasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of all the odds and ends, oneshots, and moments that don't fit anywhere else or can't stand on their own, all between Amirah Shepard and Kai Leng. </p><p>They were a perfect fit - right from the start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crash and Burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goatrocket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goatrocket/gifts).



> First up we have a young(ish) Amirah and Leng on Omega carrying out a standard search and destroy mission. This is part of their Alliance timeline, when they were both still enlisted and Cerberus wasn't more of a tiny speck on the horizon. The oneshots will go back and forth between their (mostly happy) times in the Alliance, to the separation (after Mr here was thrown in prison), and their ME3 timeline, which is honestly one of the most tragic and horrible ends to one of the most intriguing relationships I have ever had the privilege to write about. 
> 
> Amirah is not my Shepard - that honor belongs to my good friend Ariel; orisoni on tumblr. 
> 
> Now let's get this party started.

Tommy Locke doesn’t have many achievements to be proud of.

There was that time he didn’t get the belt at seven—he still remembers it clearly, because it’d been easy to fall asleep on his side for once without the aching of mottled bruises getting in the way. He supposes getting out of the house was another. Achievement, that is. Let’s see, what else? Making it this far has to count as another. He’s eased himself out of the idea that he’s living on borrowed time (Omega makes you feel like that if you hang out in the right places), but the lingering thought is still there. Then again, a lucrative job is something he’d pick over being alive and terrified any day.

You can call what he does a _job_ , right? He’d learned early on that referring to it as “being a mole” didn’t earn him many brownie points. The batarian fence he always sees after getting new intel insists on the title of “information broker.” Yeah, he knows. A batarian with manners—wonders never cease. Having to stare at said fence for prolonged periods of time while the info is checked as legitimate is a small price to pay in return for the credits he gets out of it.

“Men in high-risk positions like you are invaluable. Stay smart,” the Blue Suns centurion, a human at a weathered fifty or something that told him that one time he’d actually gone to their base. That’s an experience Tommy is not willing to repeat. Not any time soon, at least.

The Tommy from a year or so ago couldn’t picture his future past the next fix. Time was measured in how long it took to get the shakes before he had to go back to the dealer in the lower alleys. It’s an existence he tries to forget. Things are much better now, he thinks as he casually slings an arm around the shoulders of the pretty asari at his left. She laughs invitingly and leans over to whisper a _very_ lovely thank you into his ear. She smells like something light and flowery and powder-like, and her skin is the color of bluebells. If only Dad could see him now.

He presses a promising kiss to her pretty cheek when the doorman tells him there’s a message waiting for him outside, and trails his fingers over the ridges at the back of her nape. She shudders and smacks his hand playfully, calling him a tease. That one’s going to be fun to get back to later.

The air outside Afterlife isn’t much of a change—just smells more like exhaust and less like sweaty people and the buzz of drink. Depending on who you talk to, that can be taken as an improvement. He doesn’t like it out here. Too many chances for things to go bad, and the aliens always stare at you funny if you come out of the VIP section. They don’t like people who have what they can’t, he’s decided. The reasoning sounds better than just a plain “you’re fucking ugly.”

Maybe some of his fence’s politeness has rubbed off on him.

He’s stood there for about a minute before it occurs to him that maybe that last Ilium Float has made him more careless than he likes being, and rakes a hand through the short bristle of his brown hair in reflex agitation.

Doing what he does has made him more paranoid than the average Omega citizen. People are always out to get guys like him. It’s not so much an ego-trip as it is a fact of reality. He sucks in a deep breath through his nose and shakes out one of his feet. These are just jitters. He hasn’t had to run from an exchange in a while, and the longer he goes without it happening, the worse the anticipation gets.

“Thomas Locke?” says a voice, and he turns to face it. His brows rise appreciatively at what he sees.

“Just Tommy, thanks,” he replies out of habit, blinking at the young woman that’s just appeared from behind a particularly tall stack of cargo crates. The backlight of the alleyway flatters her in every single possible way. He supposes he’s a woman’s man at heart—not even the asari he left behind in Afterlife matches up to the lovely lady in front of him.

She’s tiny. He wagers the top of her head would at best come to rest right under the bottom of his chin—and if he’s right, she has an attitude about it, too. Most short people do. She’s startlingly lovely in the kind of way that makes you stop short and stare for a while, with a proud face and pronounced features. Great lips, good Christ. Her thick hair is swept up behind her in a tall ponytail, and it sways every time she takes a step. He’s admiring the green in her eyes when she moves into the light of a half-broken sign hanging above them. The too-bright flashes of fluorescence enlighten him to a few more choice details about her, like the boldly emblazoned symbol of the _Systems Alliance_ in stark white over her right breast.

He should have checked with the doorman, he should have _checked with the doorman—_

“Shit,” is all he manages before he activates his cloak with a shaky hand. He doesn’t even give her a second glance before he turns on his heel and tries getting away.

The bullet catches him square in the back, right between his shoulders, and the explosive rounds turn his insides into a scrambled mess before the slug exits him through the collarbone. Great fucking aim, he’d have said any other time, if he weren’t the one being shot down like a dog on the highway. Not many can hit their mark when an infiltrator’s cloak is up.

Tommy dies thinking a mixture of _No, no, no_ and _at least I knew what it was like being rich_. Neither of the people responsible really seem to care. The female in blue just rolls her eyes as her partner’s camouflage shimmers out of sight seconds after Tommy’s own disperses, revealing the sad crumple of his body on the alleyway cement. The mole hadn’t even guessed at the possibility of a second agent, or at the big chance there was in her obvious and thoughtless entrance was just a distraction. Stupid. She assumes you’d have to be, to take the job he did.

And the stupid ones always, always die.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says nonetheless, crossing her arms.

“Reward said dead or alive,” he responds with just as much calm, clipping his Carnifex back into the holster on his hip. The taller of the two Alliance operatives turns a thoughtful eye on Tommy and the scarlet pool spreading out underneath him. “I like him better this way.”

Amirah sighs as she activates her omni-tool. They just need some proof and then they’re out of here. She’s never liked staying on Omega longer than necessary, even if it means being partnered with Leng.

“Oh, well. Spares us the headache,” she murmurs, taking in the expression of frozen terror on the dead man’s face. Her partner scoffs quietly though his brown eyes are still fixed on her.

 _And the staring_ , he adds silently to himself. He knows she doesn’t mind.

She’d have stopped him if she did.


	2. Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something catches Amirah's attention on their way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand this happens directly after the first chapter. If you haven't guessed yet, Amirah's a Colonist/Sole Survivor. :( And for the sake of clarity, Jaz/Jasmine was Amirah's twin sister.

“I have the _perfect shirt_ for this ring. Thank you, Daddy!”

Those had been the first words out of Jasmine Shepard’s mouth when he’d given them the matching set—the necklace, and the ring.

Beautiful, fierce, masterfully faceted Paraiba tourmaline, set in twenty four karat gold, all for them and them alone. A pair, he’d called them. A pair similar and different, just like his girls. Not that they needed anything to look prettier, he’d assured them as he clicked the fastening in place behind Amirah’s neck while Jasmine slipped the ring onto her index finger. He’d complained about her having too much hair, lovingly, teasingly, the way he did everything, but in the end he’d ruffled that same head of hair before pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“I hope you like it.”

She’d loved it. They’d loved it, the way only two sixteen year old girls _can_ love gorgeous jewelry—entirely. Jasmine had planned her entire wardrobe around her piece for two weeks after that, bringing out every blue and turquoise and all the hues in between out of her sizable collection of clothes. She’d called her sister a goober for it, and had gone on about how lucky she was that _she’d_ gotten the necklace. Rings were too easy to misplace. Yeah, Jaz had said, smiling the little half-smirk she reserved for the moments she knew she had the upper hand in a conversation.

_Of course he gave you the necklace, Ami. You can’t lose something you’re attached to! But then again, this is you we’re talking about. You’re a miracle-worker. In some ways._

That had earned her endless rounds of the house, but Jaz had never been the more athletic of either of them. She’d been shrieking with delight and laughter, breathless, when Amirah had finally tackled her to the ground. _Aw, come on_ , _I’d just washed those._

_Take it back, or the skirt gets it!_

That had been the first time she’d been right about anything—the ring was too easy to lose. Too easy, she’d thought, on her hands and knees, feeling the grime of burning earth collecting and catching in the space underneath her nails. It’d all been too easy. The fire, the slaughter, the rounding up of anyone who’d been unfortunate enough to survive. Easy.

The slavers had thought it too. They’d laughed while picking through the bodies, talking, joking, as though they were rifling through the newest produce in the farmer’s market. She’s lain awake countless times in the last five years—six, next month—picturing it, running all the ways they could have treated the dead after she crawled away like a beaten dog, broken and unfeeling, working on automatic impulses. Heat twists bodies, bloats them and cracks them, turns them into nothing but curling, crushed pulp. Skin becomes hard, sometimes, gleams scarlet, like there’s anger beneath pressing needily up at the surface from below. She still can’t look at klixen without feeling ill.

The batarians had loved their fire, and used it to smoke the colonists out of their houses the way exterminators flush vermin from warrens. They must have taken it, like they took everything else. A pair of asari pass them when her synapses fire, and more images come to mind. She imagines the slaver bending down, searching, fat fingers crawling over the dead vessel of sixteen years of light and love and Mindoir afternoons, imagines him sliding the ring off, and then yanking when the swelling doesn’t let him pull it free—and the dam inside her breaks. She shoves past the asari. She doesn’t even hear their whining protest, ignores the hissed warning behind her back.

He tries twice before following her. “Shepard? Shepard!”

Nothing. She marches ahead, the tall spiral of her ponytail swaying.

“ _Amirah_.”

It’s like she’s spontaneously lost her sense of hearing. What the hell’s gotten into her, anyway?

Leng traces the trajectory she’s on forward and out, and feels the space between his shoulders stiffen when his eyes fall on the dingy, outdoor stall of one of the many batarian merchants situated along the alleyway.

He sees it almost immediately, because the quality of the rest of the things on the stand doesn’t even begin to scrape at the artistry of the pretty, blue-stoned ring sticking out of a canvas studding-board. He’s caught glimpses of her necklace, briefly, during the times she sheds her clothing for him like an unneeded skin, and it’s always brought a bitter tang to his mouth to think about it. She’s the only one out of the two of them that ever had things worth keeping from her life before.

Maybe that’s why he can’t totally understand what’s pulling her toward that stupid stall. A magnet wouldn’t have done the job any better. He ducks after her, his pace quiet and controlled, doesn’t apologize when he bumps shoulders with a surly-looking turian, just keeps his head down and moves on. This isn’t Council space. If she starts a scuffle, it could fuck up any number of situations for them. Shit, shit. This was supposed to be in and out. They get caught here, they’re on their own. He doesn’t feel like meeting Aria T’loak just yet.

But Amirah’s still walking, the steel still evident in the posture of her back. She’s not stopping. He hopes—knows—that she has better hold of herself than that. He tries not to think about the glance he got of the look in her eyes. That makes the hope a lot harder to believe.

By the time he finally catches up, she’s already struck up conversation and stopped at the stall, put her palms out on the corners, possessive intent apparent. Her voice is ice.

“One hundred credits and not a chit more.”

“Where did you even come from? Whatever. This is salvage I got myself, _human_. The price is non-negotia—”

The legs of the table rattle and the stuffy air becomes even closer as the biotics coalesce around Amirah, dark and suddenly solidly present. Leng’s ears pop and scream in protest at the low, jaw-jarring thrum of the mass effect fields. For a moment, she looks like a figure straight out of an illuminated script, with the wash of indigo rising behind her in a tearing wave. No one in the alley so much as bats a scaly eyelid or turns around to help as the cloud of biotics swells and moves outward, one gossamer edge barely brushing at the merchant’s heaving chest.

“ _One hundred credits_ ,” Amirah repeats, her lovely teeth gnashed in a barely-civilized snarl. The green in her eyes has been swallowed by the purple haze of biotics.

The batarian whines like wounded animal and pulls the ring free with shaking hands. He tosses it at her as though it’s burned him. “Fuck! Just take the damn thing and go!”

She catches it with every bit of the catlike grace he’s come to expect from her. She looks at the batarian for just an instant longer, and just when Leng thinks she’s going to lunge forward and finish it—he’s already running damage control plans through his head—she abruptly turns on her heel and walks away the way she came, breezing right past him. The soft end of her ponytail brushes at his nose and he recoils, fighting the urge to sneeze, though he’s secretly glad for the whiff of a smell that _isn’t_ alien piss and vomit.

He’s not moved his gaze away from the fist she has the ring clenched in when they turn the corner and start making their way toward the shuttle bay. He’s not going to ask, not really. Leng is many things, but thoughtless isn’t one of them. That would be like calling him impulsive. He doesn’t even touch her in the manner he’s gotten used to doing before he talks to her, so he can make sure her full attention is his. There isn’t much that can distract her. He’s on the list of things that can, but right now he’s outranked. He’ll take his chances.

“Are we good?”

The words seem to reach her after a short delay. She watches his omni-tool come to life as he prompts the shuttle waiting for them to lift its doors open. She looks down at her right hand, still closed tight, and a flicker of something he can’t describe comes to life in her eyes before it dies and falls away.

“Yeah,” she says, deadly soft. “We’re good.” 


	3. We Will Learn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short look into what living together was like for them in the Alliance.

He has a bad habit of leaving lights off.  
  
There's probably a reason for it – there's always a reason for the things Leng does. People like them can't really function without them. It's safe to have reasons for things, no matter how stupid or illogical. There's purpose in reason, and purpose means no danger of getting lost. She's been lost before, and remembers it the way a survivor recalls things through the haze of trauma. She knows the burn and bite of hunger, the graveled discomfort of thirst, the dragging, nonstop weight of fatigue; all these things are very physical, and physical means being able to counter them tangibly. You drink when you're thirsty, sleep when you're tired, and eat when you're hungry.  
  
But there is no balm for the yawning emptiness of being alone. She learned early on that you could be standing in a room packed to the brim with people and still be as alone as sure as if you were the only soul standing in the middle of the no-man's land fields under the Mindoir sun, listening to the wind catch and howl on the rock faces and knowing –  _knowing_ without doubt, that you could just fade away right here, slip away from existing, quiet, like the sliding underwater, letting it close overhead – and absolutely nothing would change, and no one would notice.  
  
It's not like that with him. He notices everything, even when his eyes are shut. He's hyper-aware of all that's around him, sensitive to the slightest change, ready to spring to the offensive as though he's hooked up to a raw live-wire that spits electricity and  tension every hour of every day. She hides her reactivity better. He's a horrible liar. Though efficient and pragmatic, he's always been more outwardly displeased with things than her – it's always expression and sarcasm with him, biting wit or underhanded compliments, a scowl or a momentary shard of laughter that shatters the silence with its unexpectedness.  
  
He gets offended when she points that sort of responsiveness out to him, or when she forgets insults that he's sulked about for days. His memory works like a beaten dog's – meticulous, though selective, and corrosively vengeful. If it matters enough to Kai Leng, he will recall everything about you, down to the vitamin supplements you take in the morning to what sort of shorts you put on when you decide to train. “You're being a creep,” she told him once when he let his eyes trail the private that had suggested she were better suited to  _boosting male morale_ than fighting herself.  
  
Amirah nearly kills herself in the living room while looking for the light switch, but it's nothing new. She won't bother telling him to turn them on. He doesn't listen on a good day, and on the bad she spends more energy trying to convince him that criticism doesn't necessarily equal hatred or disapproval than actually putting that much effort into making any change at all. She's since stopped trying the direct approach. Influencing Leng is a careful dance of measured movements and quiet changes. He can't know you're trying anything, or he's going to be against it. He's funny that way. Proud to fault. Independent to the point of self-endangerment.  
  
“You hungry?” she asks as she pushes a chair out of the way. Their shared apartment over the base isn't much to write home about, but it's comfortable, and they're too important of students for anyone to feel like questioning their choices in roommate. She doesn't think any of their classmates expected any different, either.  
  
No response. He's cooped up by the window, where he always goes whenever he's in one of his black moods. It hasn't been the best week. She'll let the silence slide. She understands. Talking isn't a preferred alternative for her, either, but silence isn't going to fill any stomachs. She knows just as well as he does that at this point, eating is more of a reflex than something they do for enjoyment. Amirah makes no noise as she makes her way into the small kitchenette attached to the living room. Rice and curry. He's not the biggest fan of spice, but it's convenient and all the ingredients are here, so he'll have to deal.  
  
Besides, it's not like he has much choice in the matter, either. It took her about five days of cohabitation to discover that Leng can only cook two things – instant ramen and pasta. She'd suspected before, since she never caught him with anything but ready-made food, but watching it in action is almost hilarious. She had been amazed he hadn't keeled over of malnutrition. It's not that he doesn't have an appetite, either; he actually eats enough to make most privates look like nibbling birds in comparison, and appetite is the one thing soldiers almost never lack.  
  
He's filled out since they started this arrangement. There are no shadows under his eyes, or the suspicion of sunken cheekbones. He's stopped hunching, too, and all that does is remind her just how tall he is, so she tries not to dwell on it that very much.  
  
By the time she's served out portions and put the rest of the leftovers in containers for them to keep overnight, he's turned his head in her direction, eyes alive with interest. Food is one way to bridge the gap when he's being glum. Once a stray, always a stray, she supposes. She feigns disinterest as she flicks through her datapad, occasionally forking some meat and chewing carefully, not even looking up when he sidles in, still as a shadow.  
  
Click, another page. He takes a plate and retreats to the small sofa, nursing the meal with caution more usually suited for open wounds. She thinks she hears a mumbled word that sounds an awful lot like an incredibly grudging “thanks,” and can't stop the twitch of her lips.  
  
“What?”  
  
He surges back like he's been hit. “I said, it stinks.”  
  
“You'll survive.”

Maybe they're not normal – but normal's never been fun, anyway.

 


	4. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> very shortly post-ME2 intro.

Kai Leng has been awake for forty-two hours. His last mark died not a half of those ago. There's asari blood spattered on his boots. He'll have to clean that later, he thinks as the monitor's orange glow washes over him. Right now there are other things to attend to, here in his abandoned, quiet quarters. The vid starts with a long shot of nothing but a wall-- the scientist probably turned it on without knowing. Idiot.   
  
The screen moves, the camera focusing on desk piled high with dossiers. "Month twenty four, day ten. Marked improvements in cardiovascular system and neurological points of interest. The subject's body seems to adapting well to valve-replacement technology. Fever has broken. No signs to indicate the rejection of integrated implants."   
  
Miranda Lawson. He's heard of her, seen her a few times-- though she couldn't see him. A pleasing example of the peak of genetic engineering. Living proof of humanity's skill and power, though her files suggest she doesn't see it the same way. A pity. Apparently the best brain money could buy wasn't best enough, if emotion could cloud even that. Things like compassion and insecurity are inconvenient and cumbersome. What has meaning is power, the anger needed to gain that power; the bite of revenge and the feeling of steel lodged in some reptile's skull, the tremble of life leaving them and the final understanding of who brought that end to them.   
  
_That_ has purpose. And purpose is paramount.   
  
 Hands move into the screen, sift through some documents on the desk.  In the corner of the monitor, the holographic heart pacing chart spikes sharply, a tall red spine against the flat blue. "Wilson, these sums are wrong. You need to--"   
  
"She's reacting to outside stimuli. Showing an awareness of her surroundings." Another voice. Male. Some grunt paper-pusher, probably.   
  
The woman at the desk gets up and the camera-drone moves with her over her shoulder as she strides toward the operating table. The glare of the lights on the metal drowns out anything visible for the first second but then the shine is gone and he sees her, laid to rest on her back with a pale sheet covering her from the collarbone downward. They wouldn't bother trying to protect her modesty if they knew how little of it she had in life, especially where sheets were concerned. He wonders how much of her they've changed.   
  
"Oh, God, Miranda," the male says as he joins the woman by the operating table. "I think she's waking up!"   
  
"Damn it, Wilson, she's not  _ready_ yet. Give her the sedative."   
  
And then, without warning, there's a sound-- like all the air being sucked out of a room, like the gasp of a drowning man hungry and desperate for breath-- and her eyes open, lashes dark over the crests of her cheeks, one hand moving limply from out and under sheet, grasping at nothing until Miranda Lawson's fingers curl around her wrist and set the limb back down on the table with a clinical precision he would admire if he were anyone else.   
  
"Shepard," she says, "don't try to move. Just lie still. Try to stay calm."   
  
But their patient is beyond listening, as she always was. Is, he supposes. She is alive, after all. If she isn't, Cerberus has created a perfect  substitute for it. Her gaze is wide with fear, unfocused, the specks of brown in her eyes standing out like chips of amber stuck fast in green crystal. Her mouth moves, but there is no sound. A stray curl falls from her brow to pool by her shoulders, its edge touching the white sheet.   
  
"Heart rate's still climbing. Brain activity is _off the charts._ "   
  
He grits his teeth at the sound of Wilson's grating voice. The scientist seems to be more content talking than doing anything. Miranda crosses the drone's line of sight again to stand before a series of terminals loaded with medical information Leng has never bothered to learn how to read, but he's sure the surplus of scarlet on the charts can't mean anything good.   
  
"Stats pushing into the red zone. It's not working."   
  
Miranda's beautiful face is murder as she turns to face Wilson. "Another dose of the sedative.  _Now_ ."   
  
The man scrambles away off-screen, and seconds later Leng hears a soft hiss. Shepard stills, and Leng thinks he knows what she's feeling: the chill of anesthetic, as though you're slipping under ice. He'd had too much time to get to know the sensation when Cerberus gave him new knees-- and new strength. Shepard gives a long sigh, shudders, and shuts her eyes again, the look of terror melting away from her features as quickly as it moved across them. Her head lolls to the side, the outline of her profile brought up in sharp relief by the metal behind her.   
  
Lawson watches as Shepard falls asleep again, and then turns to Wilson. "I told you your estimates were off. Run the numbers again."   
  
She pauses for only a moment before she looks at the drone with her cutting blue eyes and says curtly, "End session."   
  
The vid goes offline in a blink of static, and he's left sitting there without much of any particular expression, loathing the jump of his heart in his chest and the echo of its pounding in his ears. Having a reaction after all this time is ridiculous-- unacceptable. It would amuse her if she knew, he's sure. She's always liked seeing him lose any part of his meticulous self-control, no matter how small. But she's not here, and no one else is, either. No one but him.   
  
He lifts a hand to swipe it over the replay function, but he stops before his fingers make contact with the console. Hesitates.

This time, mute first.


	5. Only For Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the first signs of indoctrination.

Watching her sleep used to be something of a pastime of his.

Amirah doesn’t make a tradition of letting her guard down around anyone. He remembers spending the better part of his time trying to get a reaction from her – a flick of the eyes, a click of teeth, a tensing of muscles, a tautening of lips – anything, really, if it would only prove there was something alive and aware underneath her pretty face. And he knew there was. There always has been. Getting a glimpse of it was another story entirely. He’d had methods, then, ways to ease her out of being rigid and blank. It’s why he felt – still does – that she’s at her most honest when she’s fighting. There’s no time to hide anything when the difference of a second may kill you.

But that fight’s draining out of her. Slowly, like the creep of sunlight in space, vanishing into the dark.

Humanity’s come very far, but still no one knows where the things that pass through a black hole ever go, or if they can ever come back. His bet’s on never. It’s the safer, more logical choice. There haven’t been many things in his life worth chasing, and the only one left is sleeping almost face-down on the mattress, her knees drawn up beneath her chin and her arms folded behind the protection of her legs, pressed to her chest as though she’s shielding something precious from the open eyes of the world.

She didn’t bother putting a shirt on before falling asleep again, so he’s allowed to observe the way the orange light drifting through the half-open blinds plays on her skin, lingers in the crevices and dips along her side, and settles against the brown spill of her hair. She’s never colored it. Too much effort. It looks better this way, anyway, with the streaks of chestnut red snaking through it all. She hasn’t changed much at all. Has he? He can’t tell.

Amirah sleeps like the dead. Once she’s under, there’s no waking her up unless she comes around herself, which is why he’s not concerned with disturbing her when he pulls himself up against the headboard and sits back. The apartment’s nice, he supposes.

Places aren’t high on his attachment list. They come and go like the weather. He’s gone from bed to alleyway overnight more times than he cares to count. After a while, you just stop getting invested. There’s no point. No point, he thinks as his eyes drift back to her, lying there among the tousled sheets, breathing softly.

It would be pathetically easy to just lean over and break her neck. He’s done it to people stronger and twice her size. His hands are big enough to circle her throat twice, he knows, he’s measured –

“What the  _fuck?_ ”

Though it’s quiet, she doesn’t even register the fact that he’s spoken. She just keeps breathing, eyes shut. The sound seems louder to him now, just like the purple mottling of the bruises running along her length seems to stand out the longer he looks at her.

She’s so fragile, and so unaware. He’s had a fair amount of marks that never knew what hit them. Omega had been darker than this apartment, and the entire joint had smelled of red sand and booze, and he’d stood at the foot of the bed as he watched Liselle bleed out, blue and violet on the dingy mattress that had become her final resting place, listening to the gargle and hiccup of her last breaths struggling to get past the straight line he’d drawn across her throat.

This is not Omega.

_She is not Liselle._

He can’t tear his attention away from her. Leng hasn’t used the word scary to describe anything in the last twenty years of his life – this is the closest he’s ever come. He continues looking, and she continues sleeping. She has no idea.

The tension builds in him, like a spring being crushed into preparation, a hard hot knot in his chest, until he pulls away, turning and lifting his legs over the side of the bed. The freezing marble underneath the soles of his feet does nothing to shatter the heat inside him. It’s not going away. The thoughts aren’t dissipating. They  _aren’t leaving._

Maybe touching her will alleviate it. He knows he’s wrong the minute his hand slips under the curtain of her hair, the strands catching between his fingers. The span of his palm is almost larger than the curve of her jaw. Shit. Has she always been this small? The tip of his thumb presses into the little triangle of space at her throat where he knows the muscles beneath cross over, leaving a tiny, empty,  _exploitable space,_  and feels the lively jumping pump of her carotid artery against him.

The eerie green of her opening eyes startles him into breaking the contact entirely, and the desire is knocked out of him. She checks herself before leaning into his touch, still hazy and caught in the gauze of dreams, but he – he feels hollow, like the inside of him has been scraped away with a scoop, leaving only a fluttering, flayed suit of skin. Tired. Drained. He knows. He has to get out before it comes back.

“What is it?” Amirah murmurs drowsily, the words coming slowly. She’s a little more awake by the time he’s slipped into his trousers. He moves with feverish quickness, clipping pieces on here and fastening others there. It takes too long. He hasn’t even bothered to secure his visor when he makes his way downstairs. She doesn’t follow, only stands at the bars of the veranda overlooking the exit to the apartment, the sheets hanging around her shoulders for warmth, vigilant. He stops at the doorway for only a moment, his hand hesitating over the elevator control pad.

“I have to go.”

It’s the nearest she’ll ever get to an explanation – or an apology – though she doesn’t know for what. Not yet. She will want to remember that hesitation, later, because it’ll be all she’ll have left of him. Proof.

She’s always been good at making do with scraps. 


End file.
